The Off-Switch
by L. Drayton
Summary: '"But you can't just delete things. Your brain is your brain, not a computer."' In which fourteen year old John struggles to understand his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. K for mild language. Johnlock friendship or I guess it can be viewed as pre-slash for some who want that.


**Summary: '"But you can't just delete things. Your brain is your brain, not a computer."' In which fourteen year old John struggles to understand his best friend. K+ for mild language. Johnlock friendship.**

**A/N: So hey guys! I've obsessed a little again over Sherlock Series 3 and I churned out a couple of little things when the series was being aired. There are no spoilers in this, in fact it's completely unrelated so don't worry about that. There's not really anything else to say about this, so just enjoy x**

The Off-Switch

The rain was cold and bitter, like many of the unfortunate enduring's hearts for the only people walking the streets of London then were people with dark intentions and haunting pasts who were not destined for anywhere other than the dark halls of hell. But among the damned roaming blindly the grey pathways was an angel in comparison. He was a boy by the name of John, and he was most certainly not one of the tainted surrounding him. For John was simply going to school an hour later than the rules dictated. The dark people unnerved him, but the lack of them reassured him so he kept on.

As wet as any sea, John approached the school of St. Francis, anxiously going over his revised excuse. The tattered artwork on the faded walls of his classroom became incredibly interesting when it came to relaying the excuse (for that is what it was) to his form teacher and the man looked down his pointed nose at the disheveled boy.

"So it seems," he muttered. "If you had arrived on time today, Mr. Watson you would know perhaps that we have a new edition to the class: Mr. Holmes."

John glanced over the wide array of familiar faces before his eyes finally rested on a boy with sharp, intelligent eyes and a pale complexion. His hair was as black as the coal John so often had to fetch for the fire and seemed to have a life of its own.

"Sit with him," came the commanding voice of the teacher, "I will be having words with your Mother about your late arrival later."

The teacher himself was very stuck in the morals and methods of his predecessors and even spoke and dressed as they would have done. In the 21st century he stands out as a thorn among the fresh modern roses, but his credit to the school cannot be overlooked, and for that reason the headmistress chose to keep him in the position of year nine's form teacher.

"Hey," John whispered, barely above audible. The boy next to him looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"I was assured no colloquialisms are used at this school," Sherlock responded with the face of an incredibly suspicious police officer.

"Right, sorry. Who assured you?"

"My mother. She believes I have trust issues so she takes every opportunity to spoon feed me the most preposterous ideas that she can find. She has not yet divined my true ailment, however."

"Which is?"

"I'm a massive twat."

John snickered. The school day dragged on like a never-ending VHS tape but with the time came conversations between the two boys who were becoming close, by the end of the day they were friends and were inseparable by the cessation of the week.

"Sherlock, help me with maths," John demanded one day a few months later during a lunch break when the two were in the school library.

"421.348, 1/63 and 98.007," the other supplied without looking above the book.

"I didn't even ask the questions..."

"Those are the correct answers, why do you need to ask the questions if I know the answers?"

"Okay, fair enough. Thanks... Well, help me with astrology. Right, so Miss Cr-"

"Haven't any idea."

"You don't even know what I'm going to ask!"

"We've already established that I do."

"How do you not know, then? You've proved to me countless times that you know everything."

"When have I ever claimed to know everything, John?" Sherlock snapped at him, shutting the battered book with a resounding slam. John rolled his eyes at the theatrics and resumed his work.

"Never, I guess."

"Correct. I know nothing of the universe except the things that matter."

"But everyone knows the basic stuff."

"Oh really? Ask me a question."

"I thought you knew what I-"

"Don't be stupid, John. I was just reading your homework papers. Ask away."

"Okay well... Um..."

"Preferably in this life," Sherlock muttered.

"Got one. How many times does the earth go round the sun in one year?"

"Oh the earth goes around the sun, does it? Boring."

"Of course it does! How can you not know that?"

"I must have simply deleted it. Useless information gets deleted, such as your other friends, most of the things teachers say and everything your sister ever says."

"But you can't just delete things. Your brain is your brain, not a computer."

"Says who?"

With that, Sherlock left the library, taking the old book with him and leaving in his wake a completely confused John, who spent far too long wondering if his closest friend was perhaps a robot. It was perfectly feasible once carefully considered, and if it hadn't been for the hug John received from his closest friend the day he left St. Francis and the tears he'd spotted in Sherlock's eyes, John would still be restlessly searching for the telltale wire or off-switch hidden on his person.


End file.
